


a-lethe-ia

by imiriad



Category: Gankutsuou: The Count of Monte Cristo
Genre: Age Difference, Aphrodisiacs, Drugged Sex, Dubious Consent, Emotional Manipulation, Grooming, M/M, Memory Alteration, Memory Loss, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Past Sexual Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-06
Updated: 2016-01-06
Packaged: 2018-05-12 05:31:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5654236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imiriad/pseuds/imiriad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As a child, Albert ran away from home and returned with a fuzzy three-day gap in his memory. When Albert meets the mysterious Count of Monte Cristo years later, he is overcome with an inexplicable sense of familiarity and intimacy. As Albert's relationship with the Count progresses toward friendship, the dark secrets that lie between them are drawn to the surface and given new life.</p><p> <em>"It's a tea crafted for situations like these. When there is something weighing down your thoughts, and you need to get away from it all." The Count smiles, folding his hands together. "Would you like to try some with me?"</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	a-lethe-ia

Eugenie, his parents decide, is to be his future wife. Albert had known they wouldn't ask him for any input on the subject, but how can they expect him to marry _her_ of all girls? She hardly counts as one with her flaring temper, overly straight-forward manner, and brash speech. Girls were supposed to be like Valentine, or his mother. Soft-spoken, supportive, gentle. Not the tomboy he'd grown up with, the one who had always worn rolled up breeches under her skirts so she could join him climbing trees at a moment's notice. _Franz_ is more ladylike than her, and he's a boy.

Albert had liked Eugenie, in the beginning. Now, he notices that next to his fondness grows an equally proportionate dislike. Almost since they met, Father had fawned over the Danglars' daughter like she was his own, complimenting her intelligence, musical inclinations, and skill as an equestrian (of course Eugenie is a good rider—her mother loves horses, and Monsieur Danglars buys his wife almost anything to make her happy).

"I wish Albert was so talented," he'd heard his father say once, after Eugenie finished a beautiful sonata on the piano. Eugenie had been so proud at the praise that she hadn't been able to stop smiling for hours. Albert had been so envious he'd forced the smile from her face with an "accidental" spill of red wine on her favorite dress. He just wanted her to stop looking so pleased with herself, but instead she'd begun to _cry_ , and everything ended up Albert's fault. His father had given him that look, the one that said he wasn't able to do anything right, and his mother smiled like she felt sorry for him.

Eugenie is stupid. Both of their parents are stupid for setting up this awful match between them to satisfy themselves, and while Albert loves his mother and father, he definitely hates them right now. Those are the thoughts that lead to Albert sitting under the desk in his and Franz's hideout, curled up to seem as small as possible. He wonders if his parents are looking for him, or if they're chalking it up to him being a typical boy. He'll show them one day, Albert knows it, but his courage always wears out before he can voice the thought. Hopefully Franz will come today, so he can complain.

Franz does. Instead of asking Albert what's wrong, however, he says, "Your mother is worried."

"So what?" Albert says, even if the knowledge is gratifying. "The way she and my dad are... I hate it. I hate everything here."

"Don't say that, Albert," Franz says with a sigh. Franz is the responsible one between them, the rational one. Sometimes, Albert hates that, too. But not now. Now, it has the potential to be useful, something he can have confidence in.

"Hey, Franz..." Albert murmurs. "What if we ran away?"

Franz's eyes fly open with surprise. "What? You want to run away?!"

"'Course I do!" Albert says, fighting the fear in his breast. "I don't want to marry Eugenie and I'm tired of my parents..." He hugs his legs tighter. "I'm tired of it all."

Franz doesn't say anything for a long time. Then, "We can't do that, Albert."

"Sure we can! I have my scooter and you have your bike! You know that my house has a lot of food stores, and if I ask the maids nicely, they'll let me take extra with me." Albert thinks it's because their "secret" hideout isn't so secret after all. Whenever Albert came by to take another batch of snacks to the base, they smiled, and encouraged him to have as much as he could carry.

"That's not what I mean, Albert. Where are we going to go? What about when we run out of food, or get lost? Outside the wall, things are... different." Those are all problems that Albert expects—no, relies on—Franz to bring up, but to his unhappy ears, it sounds like nonsense. Like Franz is scared to run away from home. He probably is. Albert is, too, but not enough to remove the idea from his head.

"So what? We're smart! We'll have money and food and transportation... enough to make it for awhile. We should be able to figure out something by then!" The longer Albert talks, the better he can imagine it. Never again would he have to be compared or pitied, or have to deal with his parents' ridiculous expectations, or be called to the sitting room at seven in the morning to greet his " _fiancée._ "

"Albert," Franz says firmly, the way Father gives him warnings. Albert hates the sound of it in his voice. "You should go home."

Hiding his surge of anger at Franz's dismissal, Albert ducks his head and lets out a long sigh. "Only because I'm hungry," he says.

Franz smiles at him in relief, unaware.

 

Albert heads out on his scooter at two in the morning, after his parents have been in bed long enough for him to be absolutely sure they're asleep, and before the pre-dawn bustle of the servants could begin. Outside of the wall, it is cold and dark and dreary, but Albert is not as stupid as they all think of him. He makes sure to wear his rattiest riding clothes on the way, and although he cannot hide the model of his scooter, he scuffs the paint and unscrews one of the headlights.

He reaches the local train station without a single incident, and picks the furthest train arriving within the next ten minutes. Marseilles. The name tickles at some part of his brain, probably because his parents have mentioned it before, though Albert doesn't recall what for.

"One ticket to Marseilles, please!" he says loudly—too loudly, Albert notes with annoyance. His nerves are messing him up, making him seem either anxious or inexperienced. Albert doesn't want anyone to realize that he's very much of both. The exchange of money occurs easily enough, and Albert's heart slows its beat. Ticket in hand, he leaves the line, and a man with a tall top hat steps to the window afterward.

Albert quietly reads over the ticket aloud, trying to find his seat number. As much as he wants to appear well-versed, looking to the helpful signs at the edges of the platform is better than having to ask someone down the line. The faster he is on the train and away from Paris, the sooner he can live his life to the fullest.

Albert lets himself relax once his scooter has been piled into the storage car and he is sitting in his cabin with his overfull backpack. There's enough room for four people, but Albert hopes that at three o'clock in the morning, he'll be the only passenger here.

He doesn't get to hope for long. The door slides open, and in steps a man dressed in black, with a tall top hat in his hand and a silver briefcase. Albert briefly wonders if it is the same man who had been standing behind him at the ticket counter, but that thought doesn't last long as he looks at him.

"Oh, good evening," the man says with a leisurely bow of his head. "I didn't realize I would be having company."

Albert nods, breaking his steady gaze on his face. He's... blue. Albert doesn't say a thing to draw attention to it. He pulls a book out to read, but his eyes keep getting distracted, throwing tiny glances at the blue man over the edges. Aliens aren't rare in the world, and Albert has met a lot of them, but it's still strange seeing one that looks so uncannily _human_. Aside from the blue skin and odd-colored eyes, he looks like any other guy on the train. _And the fangs,_ Albert thinks when he sees the man smile.

"Are you traveling alone?" The question itself isn't a red flag, but Albert has to remember that he isn't inside the walls anymore. Albert tries to think of what Franz would say about it, even if the man would fit in with the sort of proper gentlemen he'd find at his father's parties.

Carefully, Albert nods. "I'm going to see my father." And just so the man doesn't have any strange ideas, he adds, "He's picking me up at the station."

"You're a brave boy, going so far on your own," the man says.

Albert buries his face deep into the pages his book, to hide the way his cheeks heat up. "It's not that big of deal," he mumbles, pleased at the compliment.

Halfway through the journey, the man asks, "Would you like some tea?"

 _Don't take anything from strangers_ , the Franz voice in his head echoes. "I'm fine," Albert says, throat suddenly feeling very parched. "Thank you, Monsieur."

The man opens his briefcase, and Albert does a double take when he sees what's inside. Half of the case is the usual papers and things one expects to find, but the other half is a compartment with a miniature tea set and the pieces of an apparatus the man twists together. A scoop of dried tea goes into the two or three cup pot, and Albert catches a whiff of the mixture. Fragrant, yet bold. It reminds him of when his mother and father each drank their preferred blend in the afternoon.

Albert completely forgets about his book as he watches the man use the machine, slowly pouring the contents of a water bottle into the funnel at the top. It goes through a series of tubes, the first and last similar to the equipment used to make spirits—Albert had gone on a factory tour last summer.

The liquid eventually reaches the tea pot. The man pulls a pocket watch, gold with a matching chain, to check the time. Bringing his own equipment to brew tea on the go, wearing his tall hat and fine coat, using a fancy pocket watch of all things! Albert is a hundred percent sure that this man is peculiar, and most definitely some sort of distinguished gentleman. The picture of him looking down at his crafted watch, then slipping it delicately into his waistcoat delights Albert. Maybe he's sitting with some alien dignitary, or a foreign diplomat.

 _But that doesn't mean he's a nice person_ , Albert reminds himself. He thinks of Valentine and her father. Even if Valentine would have been a better choice of fiancée, having Monsieur Villefort as his father-in-law made him reconsider the notion.

A few minutes and the man deems the tea complete. He lifts the pot and pours himself a steaming cup. It's a high pour, delivered with solemn grace, that aerates the tea and lets the scent fill the narrow cabin. A blend of flowery citrus, black tea leaves, and something Albert can't identify that tickles his nose. Even to Albert, who hasn't yet acquired the taste for tea, it smells delicious.

Albert stares despite himself. As the man quietly sips his cup, Albert can't suppress his interest. "Does that taste like real tea?" he asks.

"Hmm? Ah, you mean because of the machine?" Albert nods. "It's probably a different blend than you're used to, but yes. It's a proper brew."

Albert bites his bottom lip, taking another deep breath through his nose. That tickling sensation again. Could there be some sort of alien herb added in?

"The pot is small, but there's more than enough for two," the man says, smiling again.

Albert squirms in his seat for a moment, until his thirst and curiosity win against the cautious Franz voice in his head. He doesn't know why he'd been listening to it anyway. He's intelligent enough without Franz having to nag him over everything. _And if Franz really cared what I did, he should have agreed to go with me,_ Albert thinks firmly. "If it's okay with you, Monsieur, I think I'd like to have a taste after all."

The man pours him a half cup of tea in very much the same manner. Albert prefers his tea with milk and honey, but he doesn't want to be rude to the man and he's worried about seeming childish, so he drinks it the same way: plain. The first thing he tastes is the citrus, the herbs, giving a floral tang before familiar black tea leaves follow with a mild, almost savory flavor. Finally, the third layer comes. An incredible sweetness that makes Albert's tongue tingle, followed by a deeply bitter ending that stretches Albert's mouth into a grimace. The way the man nursed his tea makes sense now, taking delicate sips in quick succession. A way to avoid the bitter aftertaste while enjoying the rest of the flavor to the fullest. Albert copies him, sucking down the rest of the tea before he realizes that his head is starting to feel funny.

"Monssieurrr..." Albert's words come out slurred. There's a long lag between his intentions and his actions, as he tries to set the empty cup down with frustration. The man reaches out and eases it from his grasp, settling it back into his case. When Albert looks at the man's face, he's still smiling, but a different kind altogether—the kind Monsieur Danglars made when he heard terrible news about a stock. Albert doesn't like it at all, but it's gone in a flash. He wonders if the man had really made that face at all, or if it's the fault of whatever oddity that is making him so sluggish and sleepy.

"Mmmonsieur, I don't..." Albert mutters as the man switches sides to sit beside him. He doesn't know what's wrong with him, but Albert feels so calm and relaxed that he isn't bothered by it. The fuzzy, fluffy warmth spreads from his head to his chest, and when the man wraps an arm around his shoulders, Albert sinks into it.

"Shhh, little Albert," the man says gently. "You are safe." Albert distantly wonders why a stranger he just met would know his name, and it all goes dark.

 

Albert blinks slowly, his eyes opening for the first time in what feels like days. Every part of his body is heavy and sore, and an unbelievable sense of grogginess overwhelms him as he rubs at his eyes.

The surroundings come into focus. An unfamiliar bedroom. Albert's heart pounds in his chest. The last thing he could remember was... a golden pocket watch, a tea set in a briefcase and mismatched eyes against blue skin. A dream? Then, where is he now? He'd taken the train to Marseilles and.... And...? Had he met a man? An alien? Had someone _kidnapped_ him? Albert finds himself trembling with terror, and when the door opens, he scrambles against the headboard, holding the blanket like it's a barrier of the hardest titanium.

"Monsieur Albert de Morcerf, it seems you are finally awake," comes a deep voice. The man from before had a deep voice, too, Albert thinks. A lulling sound that wrapped around him. Not like this one, that spoke with an odd mixture of authority and restraint. This man has dark skin and sunglasses, and wears a well-fitting suit. He steps halfway into the room and gives a strangely formal bow. "My name is Giovanni. You were found collapsed on the train, so I thought to bring you to the local inn to recuperate. I managed to contact your parents about your condition... they've sent you money to fly back to Paris once you're recovered. I will take you to the airport when you are feeling well enough for the journey."

It's a lot of information to absorb at one time, but more than the rest, Albert hears, _you ran away from home and your own parents didn't care enough to come get you when they heard you were ill._ It's a bitter pill to swallow.

"Thank you very much for helping me. I think I'm fine now. I... want to go home," he says, looking down. Questions about the blue-skinned man with ice-cold hands that he'd met on the train swirl in his head, but the more he thinks about it, the less sure he is that it actually happened. The memory is slipping through his fingers like sand through a sieve. Albert frowns, closes his eyes, and lets it.

"Very well," Monsieur Giovanni says. "I'll make arrangements for the next available flight. Before that, you should have something light to eat."

He nods, and Monsieur Giovanni leaves the room. Albert weakly gets out of bed, legs aching, and clambers over to the window. Marseilles spans underneath him, street already filled with plenty of blue-collar workers at the break of dawn. The docks are busier still, and the port is beautiful in glow of the rising sun. Albert thinks it's a shame he couldn't have experienced a day of it, but this is his reality: timidly watching the world from behind the glass, hoping one day to be a part of it all.

 

He's in Paris before his parents have had their breakfast, but neither of them are waiting for him at the airport. Instead it's the family chauffeur and to his surprise (or maybe not), his best friend.

"Albert!" Franz calls, running up to catch him in a short hug. "When I heard you were gone, I thought something terrible had happened!" His eyes have tears in them, like he had feared Albert dead or kidnapped or worse ( _fingers squeezing his thigh, enticing whispers that leave him confused and wanting_ ). Franz pokes him hard in the chest, breaking the reverie into crumbled bits. "You idiot!"

"Nothing happened, Franz," Albert sighs out, brushing Franz's hands away. "I just got sick on the way. I was in bed for days! Didn't even get to step onto port. Real lame, huh?"

Franz doesn't say, _I told you so_ , but he doesn't have to. Albert can read it in his face like every time before. "It's more important that you're okay," Franz says softly.

Albert can tell he means it, so he forgives Franz for always being right. He shrugs his shoulders and stares at his feet. "Sorry for making you worry."

It's a day full of apologies to come, Albert knows. His parents would fuss and scold at him for weeks after this, but he has to go home. A reluctant feeling of defeat hangs over him during the short trip.

When Albert steps out of the car, the first thing he hears is not his father's frustrated voice saying, _What were you thinking?_ but his mother, full of emotion. "Albert, are you alright?! I'm so glad you're home safe!" Albert is swept up in her arms before the surprise can even register. Looking at her face, he feels a pang of guilt. Through her make-up, he can see dark circles underneath her loving eyes. She had stayed up late, probably been so worried she cried. Albert immediately regrets what he'd done, and the righteous anger he had at his parents for not coming for him all but disappears. Maybe they'd had their reasons. Maybe they would have come the next day had Albert not woken up.

Albert tenses in his mother's arms when he hears the slow, heavy steps clicking down the sidewalk to the gate. His father. "Have you thought hard about what you've done?" he asks. Albert swallows hard and nods. "Good," his father says, setting his hand on Albert's head. When Albert is finally brave enough to confront the inevitable disappointment on his face, he finds relief there instead. "Your mother and I were very worried about you, Albert."

Even if his parents sometimes seem thoughtless or cruel, they love him deeply. How could he forget something so obvious? How could he forget all of the nice things that he and his parents had done together? His eyes water, and Albert hugs his father around the waist. "I'm sorry, Father, Mother! I won't do anything like that again!"

 

Albert doesn't, but the urge grows within him. It's what leads him to Luna's great Carnival celebration, though his parents don't let him go for the whole week. He takes Franz with him this time—or rather, Franz wouldn't allow him to go anywhere that far without him. Albert has an inkling that his mother had asked Franz to keep an eye on him, ever since then. But Franz is his best friend, and Albert appreciates his company, especially in new and unfamiliar situations.

After the parade comes the opera to which Marquise G. had invited them, and although Albert is not usually interested in theatre, he finds himself drawn into the performance. A secret love, burning with passion. A forced relationship that drives one to madness, and in the middle of it all, a bouquet of blue roses, drawing everyone's attention to the box seat from where they'd been cast.

Albert's breath catches in his throat when he sees the man standing there. He's too far to get a good look at without a pair of opera glasses, but Albert can picture him perfectly. A heat fills his body, warming his face, as if it knows something that Albert's mind hasn't figured out quite yet.

He must be staring with intensity, because that odd-eyed gaze sweeps toward him in full acknowledgment of his attention. The man offers a light bow, and Albert hurriedly looks away, embarrassed at his obviousness. Once he thinks the man has turned his focus back to the performance, however, his eyes are pulled back to him. Albert watches him more than the stage below.

The Count of Monte Cristo, Marquise G. says, is the name of the mysterious man.

"Count," Albert whispers under his breath, just to try it out. It fits him perfectly. It feels... right.

And it must be pure coincidence that Albert is standing in the lobby when that very Count comes walking through, heading toward the elevator. Albert just wants a glimpse, to see if his mental image is anything near the truth, and somehow that desire turns into a fully-fledged sprint down the hall. When he rounds the corner, the man is gone—but in his place, lies something else.

The sight of it nudges something inside of him. Albert reaches down to pick it up, as if in a trance, and opens the pocket watch—the golden pocket watch, with a matching chain. Inscribed inside, the words: Mors certa, hora incerta.

_"Do you know what that means?" A coaxing voice._

_Albert frowns, trying his hardest to remember the Latin he'd been taught so far. "Death... is fixed. Time... isn't?" That doesn't make much sense, but it's the best guess he has._

_The voice chuckles. "Literally, yes. You're very smart, aren't you, Albert?"_

_The praise makes him blush and shift in his seat. "What does it mean?"_

"Death is certain, its hour, uncertain..." Albert murmurs to himself. What was that foggy memory? What is any of this? His grip tightens around the watch, and Albert runs as fast as he can up the stairs. His legs and lungs burn by the time he reaches the top, and he's almost sure that he's missed the Count of Monte Cristo entirely as he swings open the doors. But there sits his ship, not yet taken off.

Albert walks forward, anxious. The doors open again and reveal the regal figure with a light blue vest, black coat and cloak, and a tall top hat. Albert reaches into his pocket for the watch, but his movement slows the closer the Count gets to him. His voice doesn't work, and something in his head is ringing _it's him_ over and over again, even though he's never met the Count in his life.

The Count passes right by, smoothly tipping his hat in greeting. Albert gapes, body frozen as the Count enters his ship and the door closes behind him. Albert's heart beats wildly. Only when the ship takes off into the night sky is the Count's hold on him released.

Albert takes a step, but his knees are jelly. His legs give out under him, leaving him dazed on the ground. He clutches the watch in his hand desperately and looks at it in confusion, as though it holds all the answers deep inside its clockwork. If it does, Albert isn't skilled enough to pry them free. Though the watch wouldn't tell him anything, it's a link to something that can: the Count himself.

 

Everything goes much more smoothly than Albert could have expected, with an invitation to dinner from the man himself. He wonders if the Count had been intrigued by his curious reaction at the opera house, or perhaps he'd realized that Albert had picked up his watch. It's almost too convenient, but after fifteen long years, Albert's luck is due to finally turn around. The Count's messenger also seems vaguely familiar to him, but Albert doesn't dwell on it too long. If he could find out how he recognized the Count, Albert figures the rest of the pieces will fall into place.

It isn't soon enough before they're face to face. The first time Albert hears the Count speak, his breath stops. It's a simple how-do-you-do, but his voice pulls Albert in headfirst, and he can suddenly imagine it saying all sorts of other things ( _You are a very good boy, Albert_ and _You and I are bound by fate,_ and even, _I think very fondly of you_ ). He just hopes the warmth in his cheeks isn't visible.

Dinner goes well, ending with an invitation to join the Count again the next day. Franz wants them to decline, but Albert accepts the offer eagerly. His best friend doesn't understand. Albert doesn't think he will even if he tells him, so he doesn't bother. He needs to know what's happening to him and why, what force is pulling them together. (Yet those words from the Count float back in his mind. _Do you have someone you pine away for, Monsieur Albert?_ He'd thought the answer was no, but the longer he thinks about it... Maybe he does.)

The Count rises, pulling off a glove, and holds his hand out to him. The rounded lines on his skin draw Albert's attention for a moment, but it's more compelling to touch him, right now. He grabs his hand tightly and the Count smiles. His skin lacks any and all warmth. Anyone unprepared for such a thing would have surely flinched, just a little bit. So why hadn't Albert?

Albert stares at his own palm on the way back to his room, the lingering sensation nagging at him. A shiver runs up his spine, like the Count is stroking his back with his fingers—cold, cold fingers, that don't warm up no matter where he touches and how long.

 

The execution is the next day, and the game that comes with it ends so horribly that Albert thinks he's paying for every auspicious event he's had on Luna so far. He doesn't want to watch. The crowd's jeers and yells meld together, turning into one steady chant. _Kill him._ Albert feels himself trembling as the Count takes him by the shoulders and leads him to the edge of the balcony for a better look.

Albert doesn't want a better look.

"You did a good thing, Monsieur Albert," the Count tells him soothingly. "Now, let's watch. Don't look away." His breath is hot against Albert's ear—bizarre, when the rest of him is so very cold. "Not for an instant."

Is it stubbornness? Resolve, to see things through to the end? His eagerness to please the man next to him? Whatever the reason, Albert obeys the command, staring down at the man inside the raised guillotine. He doesn't _have_ to look. He could focus on the crowd just behind the platform, or the kneeling prisoner on the side; it's not like the Count would know the difference. But his eyes can't peel away from it, even as the final call comes. Even as the blade drops. Even as the black sack, once covering the head of a living man, is disconnected from the body. Rolls forward, down the platform. Red blood, spewing everywhere. For a second, Albert thinks he might vomit. He hears Franz make a wretched noise from behind, and wonders if he did instead.

It's not so bad, not yet—until the body is rolled to the side. Albert remembers that body, the face of the man who wore it, who insisted that he'd done the crime for his children's sake and cried when that hood was put over his head. His... head.

Albert's gaze moves back to the decapitated mass in the middle of the platform. His vision quickly tunnels, darkening, and his body sags. The Count is ready for it. He catches Albert's weight easily against his chest, steadying him with an arm around the middle. Albert vaguely registers Franz's voice, but it's distant, overwhelmed by another, much closer, much clearer. The Count (or someone else, someone from a long forgotten memory) saying gently, "Relax, Monsieur Albert, you are safe."

 

Four long months pass since that day, but Albert can't shrug the feeling that he has met the mysterious noble known only as the Count of Monte Cristo once before. Some nights, he sleeps with the gold watch under his pillow in the hopes that it will reveal another vision. It never does.

Albert never quite gets the proper moment to ask, or maybe he's just so fascinated by the Count that the thought doesn't cross his mind until they've parted ways once more. Each moment they spend together is an inch closer together, another step toward—something. Albert doesn't know what, but he anticipates it, and thinks the Count must feel the same way.

"Albert," the Count calls him now, plain and unadorned. Friendly. ( _Intimate_.) Albert wishes he had something equivalent to use in return, to express how their relationship has changed since it started.

 

"I only... wish I could have saved him, too." The death of the Villefort butler weighs heavily on Albert today. Valentine had been rendered to a weakened, catatonic state after the poisoning, but she had escaped with her life. Albert tries to focus on that part above the rest.

"Worry not. You were able to save your friend. You should take blessings when they arrive, even if they are shrouded in darkness. Who is to say when you will receive the next?" What the Count says is true, but the frown doesn't leave Albert's troubled face.

The Count takes one look at it and makes a small sound in his throat like he's remembered something. "Albert, this very morning, I received a special shipment from across the galaxy. It has been a long time since I've had it... It is very difficult to procure in this region of space, you see. It's a tea crafted for situations like these. When there is something weighing down your thoughts, and you need to get away from it all." The Count smiles, folding his hands together. "Would you like to try some with me?"

The hairs on the back of Albert's neck rise. It sounds like some sort of banned drug—but the way the Count describes it makes Albert worry for a different reason altogether. "Is... there something you often wish to forget, Count?"

The Count's brows twitch into a pensive expression. "When you become as old as I am, it's uncommon to live without something haunting you."

That sounds incredibly sad to Albert. He thinks of the picture locked in his mother's dresser, the argument between his parents after the letter marked _Edmond Dantès_ had arrived at their home. "Is that what it means to become an adult...?" To his surprise, the thought makes it past his lips instead of staying in his head.

"I wouldn't say that at all. Some of us are lucky, and some are unluckier than most. It is human nature to reflect on the past. To regret, and to hate." There's that strange light in the Count's eyes again. Albert remembers seeing it twice before. Who is it that incurred those feelings from him, the ones hidden so deeply Albert couldn't make them out? He wonders if Haydée knows. His fingers clench when he realizes the answer is almost certainly yes. "More importantly," the Count says, "are you willing?"

Willing? Oh, the tea. "S-sure!" The response pleases the Count, who nods with approval, and moves toward the tea cart Bertuccio had brought them earlier. It provides hot water through some mechanism and its lower shelves are stocked with a wide array of small tins. At the very end of the top shelf, a matte charcoal tin catches Albert's eye. It's the one the Count reaches for.

He opens the lid, and holds it out to Albert. "It has a mysterious scent, but the flavor is quite delicious, and very sweet. I think you will like it."

Albert breathes in deeply. The fragrance tickles his nostrils as he does. An image comes to his head—the reflection of stars in deep purple tea, captured in small porcelain cups. Confused, Albert leans in to take another whiff, but the Count pulls the tin away with a chuckle. "The scent is more pronounced once it's brewed, Albert. It won't take long."

Albert feels like a kid waiting to receive a present on his birthday as the tea slowly blooms in the pot. It smells pleasant. Comforting. Albert wonders if that's part of whatever made it so hard to import. Still, he trusts the Count, no matter what anyone else has to say about it. Sometimes, Franz compares him to a moth drawn to a flame, or a bug setting on the edge of a Venus flytrap, but Albert knows this is magnetism, pure and simple. Maybe the Count's characteristics don't match up with Franz, or Beauchamp, or any of his friends, but when it comes to Albert... they fit against him like a neighboring puzzle piece.

The Count starts pouring the tea low, then raises the pot until it's held above both their heads. A beautiful pour. Albert inhales slowly through his nose and that unknown scent brushes against his sinuses. The first cup is handed to him. It's polite to wait, he knows, and he wouldn't dare show bad manners in front of the Count, even if it's maddening.

But soon, the Count is finished preparing his own cup, and raises it with a smile. "To better thoughts, Albert."

"Thank you, Count." Albert takes a sip. Instead of flavor, what he gets is a flash of light, a procession of unfamiliar recollections, each more vibrant than the last.

The Count, sitting across from him in a train cabin. A stream of steaming tea and its peculiar, delectable taste. Everything vanishing. The Count whispering something so reassuring in his ears that he nearly weeps.

Albert doesn't understand. He takes in a sharp breath and goes back for another drink, curious, captivated.

Space. Beautiful stars unfolding behind an expansive window, childish excitement that can't be contained. _Do you know what that is, Albert?_ the Count asks. _The Andromeda nebula, right?_ Albert replies, voice high and unbroken. He can see himself in the window, still young, the Count's gloved hand completely covering his small shoulder.

Albert's brows furrow. He looks up at the Count, confused. What kind of tea is this...? Is the Count having similar strange visions? If so, the Count doesn't betray anything, drinking with the same solemn expression he always does. Albert swallows, staring down at the mirrored sky in his cup, and returns to it.

The Count's hands are cold, as cold as the rest of him, but Albert doesn't mind it when he sits in his lap. _Albert,_ the Count says, voice feathery against his ear, y _ou are a good boy._ Albert likes the way that sounds very much and blushes, fidgeting nervously. The Count makes a noise and wraps his arm around Albert's hips, holding him still. _Don't do that_ , he says. Something Albert can't place colors the words. Something that makes his heart speed up.

A gulp of tea this time.

 _Trust me, you are very special._ Special? _Special to you?_ Albert blurts out before he can stop himself. He thinks that the Count is amazing, his tea and his kindness and all the fantastic things he's shown him on his ship. The Count seems surprised at the question, but laughs anyway and musses his hair. _I am very fond of you, yes._

Another.

The Count's lips are soft. Albert thinks he's trying to brush them against his cheek, so he turns his head into it, making their lips meet. _I like you a lot, Count,_ he whispers. The Count's hands feel refreshingly cool when they press against his stomach and slip into his shorts. Albert remembers that no one is supposed to touch him there, especially not someone as old as the Count, but Albert is so hard it aches. He knows the Count wouldn't hurt him. He trusts him, but more than that, it just feels so... so good. Albert leans into his touch, panting and rolling his hips.

Albert puts the cup to his lips again, but it's empty. A strongly bitter taste floods his palate and the past washes over Albert in a tidal wave; he's wet with sweat, left trying to catch his breath as the pieces come together.

When he'd run away from home long ago, Albert hadn't been sick in bed like he'd thought. He'd passed out on the train, and when he woke up, he was in space with the strange man he'd met en route to Marseilles. He knew Franz and his parents would flip if they found him in this situation, but it didn't bother Albert for a moment that he had been spirited away from the Earth and everything he knew. This was adventure. This was freedom! It was why he'd run away in the first place, to get away from it all.

The man—the Count—had seemed nice. Albert felt at peace with him, felt... validated, appreciated, and had developed a crush the very instant the Count had put a small, golden telescope in his hands and encouraged him to look among the stars. It was the world his father saw, and never wanted to show him. The gesture broke down every bit of suspicion easily—not that there was much; a thick veil of something obscured those silly, paranoid emotions.

Albert doesn't remember how long he was on the ship. Only three days had passed between his leaving Paris and his return, yet those three days had felt like so much more. Perhaps it was the timelessness of the cosmos that gave no hint to the hour or day, or maybe it was the way he had been so tired all the time. He slept often, in what seemed to be whole nights' sleep, but must have only been a mere catnap. Albert doesn't remember having any dreams, just blackness and low whispers, like someone was trying to call to him from behind the darkness. The hum of a seductive voice saying his name, and _I will take care of you. You can trust me._

He had associated it with the Count, and those words had permeated his very being, comforting him. To the end, he believed the Count not to be a dangerous man, even as the Count returned his childish kisses with an adult's passion, and...

Albert can't understand the Count's motives at all. He can scarcely believe any of these memories to be real. Why had he picked Albert up that day? Why had he touched him like that? And why didn't Albert remember until now? Why... why hadn't the Count said anything about it...?

There is a reason for it, one that makes sense, Albert is sure of it. He tells himself so, but the base premise of the Count being trustworthy is slowly chipped away by his uncertainty and fear.

"Count," Albert says, setting down his cup on the table. It falls loosely from his fingers onto its side, and Albert doesn't notice until he hears the sound of porcelain clinking against marble. His range of vision is cut in half, flickering and blurred. He can hardly make out the Count's face from across the table.

"What's going...on?" Albert's mouth is numb. Forming thoughts into speech becomes more difficult by the passing second, and then, thinking anything at all. His lashes flutter, and the world sways so violently that Albert feels like he's toppling overboard into shark infested waters all over again.

Albert slips off the edge of his chair. His body won't obey him properly and he can't move his hands quickly enough to break the fall, but something else does it for him. The Count, corner of his lips curled in dark amusement, catches Albert before he hits the ground, and gently straightens him in his chair.

"You've grown up very well, Albert," the Count says, stroking his hair. "I'm proud of you." A tingle forms in Albert's chest: pride... pleasure, before his sight fades to black.

 

That warm feeling remains in his chest, growing stronger. When Albert wakes, the giant simulacrum of a sun is overhead, staring back at him with one unblinking eye. Its framing dials twist and turn in the golden sky. The sight is too fanciful for Albert at first—for a moment, he's sure that he's still in a dream. The only sounds are waves gently lapping against man-made shore, the soft rustling of a breeze, and then, the shuffling of someone close. Very close.

The firm pillow Albert had been resting his head against shifts, and a gloved hand moves to cup his cheek. Albert thinks that, normally, finding himself sprawled on the Count's lap would put him into a panic, but right now, it feels so soothing he doesn't dare disturb the moment. Instead, he leans into the touch, and moves his gaze to the Count's handsome face.

Albert recalls that first meeting on Luna, how he'd been lit up with an incredible yearning he couldn't understand. His mind had finally caught up, zeroing in on the source: the Count had put it all there, years earlier when he was a boy. "Count..." Albert's words form with a lingering lag. "Why didn't you tell me that we had met before? I... Somehow, I'd forgotten."

Albert can't read the Count's expression from this angle. The Count moves slightly, fingers brushing the edge of Albert's lips. "How could I? I did many things that I regret."

Those words draw Albert upward into a sitting position, turned to face the Count. The large _chaise longue_ underneath them is embroidered in a beautiful mix of gold and red tendrils. Seeing the Count against it reminded Albert of how he looked with his cloak unfolded in the wind.

"I don't regret them one bit!" Albert insists. "You showed me... so many wonderful things that I thought I would never be able to see." A polished telescope as a portal to grandness, the rainbow mesh of galaxies against the dark void, the feverish delight of first love (the Count's breath on his neck).

If Franz were here—or if he ever finds out—Albert knows he'd call the Count a repulsive man for his actions, but Albert doesn't agree with that. Or maybe, it's more accurate to say he just _can't._ His head rings and his heart thuds so loudly when he focuses on the memories, and all he can think about is how much he wishes the Count would touch him again. He looks away sheepishly. "Count... I... I've grown since then." Nearing his sixteenth birthday, Albert is not quite an adult, but he is not the child who had naïvely run away from home years ago. Still, Albert had been swept away by the Count just as easily, infatuation sprouting from buried roots and growing stronger second time around.

For a moment, Albert has the worst thought—that maybe having grown is actually worse, that the Count had chosen him back then precisely because of his youth. Instead of being utterly disgusted at the idea, Albert is consumed by the fear that the Count might not want him anymore. A vice squeezes hard on his chest, tightening as he waits for the Count to speak.

"To be entirely honest, when I invited you to enjoy dinner with me on Luna, I had recognized your name and chosen you for that reason. However, when you seemed to have suppressed the memory, I could only feel relief." With a small, warped smile, he says, "I had wished to become friends... perhaps to make up for my past trespasses. It would be more prudent to stay away, I knew, and yet..." The Count turns his eyes downward and closes them in contemplation. "I found myself making the same mistakes once more."

Albert swallows at those words, trying hard not to read his hopes into them. He reaches for the Count's left hand, holding it firmly between his palms. His mind is unsettling empty of responses he'd consider proper and natural, and empty of guilt for it, too. "You can make whatever mistakes you like in front of me, Count. I... will keep them safe and sound, and tell no one of them." The Count's eyes open, fixing on him. Albert likes it almost as much as it terrifies him. "I had forgotten, but I still found myself chasing after your shadow. From the time we met on Luna... until today, my thoughts continue to be filled with you."

The Count's lips quirk at one edge. He gently pulls his hand free and chides him, "You are still very young, Monsieur Albert." There's a sudden distance he puts between them by withdrawing, pointing out the difference in their ages, and using a title, as if the last few days didn't happen at all.

Unwilling to give up so easily, Albert closes in, supporting his weight on the Count's knee. He does not let the Count avoid his gaze, and speaks as firmly as he can. "I'm old enough to know what I want." One of the Count's eyebrows raises slightly, more doubting words being prepared behind the expression. Albert doesn't let them form. His method is chaste and simple, but powerful: the act of pressing their lips together in a clumsy kiss.

Sure that he has the Count's full attention, Albert draws back slightly. His heart is beating so loudly that he can hardly hear himself. "I want _you_ , Count."

The Count sighs. It isn't frustration, more like relief, and the distance between them is closing. All of it. His gloved hand scales Albert's side, hip to shoulder, and he says, "Oh, Albert." The tone sends a tingle down Albert's spine, which turns to a shudder when the Count leans in to kiss him. Albert had been shocked when he'd spotted the Count in Madame Villefort's greenhouse, by how easily and practiced he had seemed holding her, his smirking lips against her neck. Shocked, and also... excited.

The Count kisses nothing like Peppo, or the few girls in school who had let Albert go as far as putting a hand up their blouses. He's so skillful that Albert can do no more than tremble as the Count sucks his bottom lip into his mouth, kneading it with his teeth. An expanding ache builds in Albert's chest, until he realizes that he hasn't taken a breath since the Count began and deeply inhales through his nose.

The Count is touching him all over, stroking his stomach, gripping a hip, but Albert is floundering completely. He doesn't know what to do with his hands, which is ridiculous because he knows full well what they're _supposed_ to be doing. In the end, he's left clutching at anything he can to keep him stable, relishing in the deft wetness of the Count's tongue—just barely warm; Albert wonders if it's because of the tea they'd shared earlier.

A blissful eternity later, the kiss is broken. Albert's head is swimming in a completely different way than before. The Count strokes down the center of Albert's chest, easing open buttons at they go. It's so distracting that Albert nearly misses it when he speaks (but he could never miss anything in that voice; it teases at his very soul). "I am not the noble man you think I am, Albert."

Is the Count playing him, tugging him forward and pushing him away at the same time? Albert can feel the sweetness left in his mouth, yet the Count is trying to wash it away. This time, Albert can't hide his frustration. "Then _show_ _me_ what kind of man you are! I want... I want to know you better than anyone!" Better than Bertuccio or Baptistin, or beautiful Haydée, with her calm heart and resonating harp notes. In a way, she reminds him too much of Eugenie. Alluring and engrossing, easily gaining the favor he wanted (and, worst of all, _deserving it_ so much more).

At first, the Count seems surprised by the outburst. Then, his brows lower, eyes narrow, and his lips spread into a knowing grin. "You are envious."

"That's not it," Albert lies, indignant at how easily his mind is read. The Count's unchanging expression makes him crumble in less than five seconds. Albert could have said anything, but what tumbles out is something so honest it hurts him with its ridiculousness. "She... belongs to you."

Out of all the potential responses, Albert certainly doesn't expect the Count's cool lips grazing his ear, or words that stir him up faster than a hurricane. "Then shall I make you mine, as well?"

Arousal floods Albert so quickly he hardly has the time to cling to his wits. His voice dries up in his throat, but Albert needs to answer him, answer him _now_ , before the Count can pull away and tell him he was just teasing. It takes so much effort to force out any sound that, when it does come, it's a strangled cry. "Yes, Count! Please!"

The Count smiles, and gently pushes at Albert's shoulders. Albert watches silently as the Count stands and pulls his cloak off the back of the _chaise longue_ , folding it over his arm. Albert's mind is spinning with possibilities, each worse than the last. Had he done it all wrong? Been too desperate, too childish for the Count to even consider his plea?

The Count turns to him. "If that's what you wish... Come, Albert," he says, and offers his hand.

Albert takes it. If the Count led him gently like this... Albert thinks he would follow him absolutely anywhere, be it into worlds the likes of which he's never dreamed, or the deep darkness of space, or even into hell itself.

(Some part of him knows the truth, that he's too far gone to ever return—the Count doesn't have to lead him, doesn't have to be gentle at all, and Albert would still throw away every bit of his being if it meant the Count would keep looking at him.)

 

The room the Count leads him to is a sharp contrast to the golden glamour in the halls before the elevator and the surreal extravagance of the underground sea. A tall, dark room made of gray blocks with a high ceiling and a single skylight, crossed with steel bars. It reminds Albert of the Count's villa—the soft bed in which he woke, the Count at his side, his touch a relief to Albert's feverish skin as he poured elixir into his mouth (made, the Count had said, expressively for him).

Albert wonders if his expression betrays his underwhelmed reaction, because the Count stifles a laugh when he looks at him. There's no time to sputter an excuse before the Count reaches for the wall and flicks on the light switch. The instant he does so, color bursts through the room. The walls, seemingly plain and barren, come to life with tiny prisms refracting rainbow light and the glittering of mica embedded deep within the stone. Even the duvet is sprinkled with iridescent flecks of color. It's so reminiscent of the stars that had captivated him on the Count's ship that it has to be on purpose.

"It's beautiful," Albert says quietly, embarrassed over his initial thoughts. The Count uses the coat rack for his cloak and jacket, before winding his cravat around a hook. Albert follows the Count's example, and shrugs out of his jacket, and, after a moment of hesitation, pulls off his unbuttoned shirt as well.

He sits on the bed next to the Count. During all of Albert's previous experiences, he had been the one making the first move with inexperienced enthusiasm, but when the Count (and all he offers) is so close, thoughts of anyone else fall away. He's waiting on the Count's word, a sign, anything. It comes with his hand at Albert's chin, tipping it as the Count dips forward. Unlike the gentle touch at his face, this kiss is so strong it steals Albert's breath away. The Count bites at his lips with bruising intensity, and when Albert's mouth parts in a gasp, his tongue sinks inside. The Count tastes clean and clear, with a hint of something smoky underneath. Albert wishes the Count would keep kissing him until he could figure out exactly what it was.

Reassured twice over of the Count's desire, Albert's confidence returns, buzzing through his body. He lunges forward and wraps his arms around the Count's neck. The Count's hands find his bare back in a solid embrace, anchoring Albert to this very moment, with the Count's nails grazing his shoulders and his tongue sliding against his own—not that Albert's mind would be able to wander.

Something as simple as this shouldn't be enough to get him so excited, but when the Count shifts his leg, the way his knee nudges Albert's thigh goes straight to his cock. Albert can hardly pull away for long enough to breathe, let alone speak, so he ends up moaning, "Count," right into his mouth.

The Count draws back, his thumb wedged right inside Albert's waistband. Albert thinks he might melt under the heat of his gaze when their eyes meet. "I'm going to take you," the Count says, like it's a foregone conclusion that Albert wouldn't object to at all—he's right, of course. "You know what that means, yes?"

Albert blushes. "Yes, I, uh, I'm..." He bites at his bottom lip to stop floundering like a nervous wreck and nods his head. "Yes."

The Count lets out a slow breath, as if relieved to hear Albert's answer. "I must apologize, Albert. Although it's your first time... I'm not sure I can be very patient."

Were it not the Count saying such a thing, he would likely find it off-putting. Albert knows he has nothing to worry about under his watch. "I'm not afraid."

The Count gives him one of those coy smiles. "I know. If you like, I have something that can make the experience... easier for you. Actually, it would be a weigh off my shoulders if you did use it. I would be upset with myself if you didn't find it as enjoyable as I did."

When the Count says it like that, it doesn't matter what it is, Albert would accept. Once Albert agrees, the Count stands to retrieve a small bottle and a smaller tube from the drawer of the nightstand. The Count having something to... help... puts Albert further at ease, but he can't help the irrational jealousy that surges at the Count having something like that on hand. The Count is a handsome and attracting man, well-versed in love and its fellows, and Albert had known that since their crossing on Luna. The most important thing is the present and the fact that the Count could have anyone he wanted in Paris, yet he is here with Albert.

As though reading Albert's insecurity, the Count returns to his side with a passionate kiss. It's exactly the trick to distract him from anything besides the Count's firm body against his. The Count's fingers trail up Albert's thigh, gliding along the inside, so close to his erection that Albert bucks into it. Without an ounce of effort, the Count pulls open the button of Albert's trousers and strips him down to skin alone. Albert doesn't feel as exposed as he thought he would. All that fills him now is nervous excitement.

Albert forces himself to stay still when the Count draws his hand up and down his cock. The light touch is more than enough to get Albert panting, as the Count presses his lips to his throat, sharp canines pricking the skin. Just weeks before, Lucien had teased Albert about the rumors surrounding the Count, that he could be a vampire on the prowl for virgin boys and girls. Little did either of them know, Albert would soon be giving himself up anyway, groaning at the thought of those fangs piercing his neck.

The Count teases him with fleeting strokes, until Albert is sprawled out on his stomach in the center of bed and the Count is behind him, raking his fingers down his back. After a few repetitions, his nails come to rest just above the curve of his ass. "This will... encourage your muscles to relax," the Count says, and Albert hears a quiet pop. "The initial application may sting for a moment, but it will fade in time."

"O-okay," Albert mumbles into the pillow, trying not to wriggle as the Count spreads the cream onto his hole. The more the Count rubs it into his skin, the more it starts to tingle, and eventually burn. Albert lets out a quiet grunt. The Count's free hand drops to palm his erection, and while the pleasure doesn't quite blot out the pain, the clashing sensations so close together are appealing in a distinct way. Soon, the ache begins to ebb, though the heat still stays. No, it doesn't just stay, it spreads. Albert can feel it working its way outward, radiating through his whole body as the Count continues to massage the area.

Albert's breath hitches, surprised to feel the concoction already working its magic. The Count presses the pad of his thumb against Albert, and instead of tensing at the threat of intrusion, Albert eases in seeming anticipation. Is he blushing? It's hard to tell when every part of him is feverish. The Count firmly grasps his cheeks and pulls them apart, examining the spread of his hole. "Very..." The Count's voice sounds unlike Albert has ever heard it, husky and breathless, until he inhales and starts again, "Very good, Albert. I believe you are ready."

The warmth inside of him flares at the sound of it, so much so that Albert is worried the reaction is some unfortunate side-effect. "Count, my body feels strange. I, I feel so hot."

"That's perfectly normal," the Count says. "It also carries some... intense aphrodisiac properties."

"A-Aphro-?" Albert sputters the word, startled that the Count wouldn't have shared that piece of information until now. It isn't as though he needs the extra help—Albert had been burning with lust since they started, but now it's given a literal counterpart.

The Count leans over Albert, mouth hovering at his ear. That cold body on his skin provides no relief, and contrary to Albert's expectations, makes him grow hotter. "Don't fret, Albert. You are in good hands." The Count drops to a low rumble. "Whatever fire you feel... I shall properly quench for you."

The tone of it and the words themselves, combined the drug coursing through him... it all makes Albert practically swoon. What had been an unpleasant warmth skyrockets to greater heights, and he can't wait one moment longer. "Then... Count..." Albert turns his face to look at him, but he can't find the Count's eyes behind the curtain of his long, dark hair. "Please, hurry."

The corner of the Count's mouth turns upward. His grip finds Albert's hip and tugs, urging him onto his knees. Albert obeys, a shiver crawling up his spine when the Count draws back in preparation. Something slick and hard nudges his hole, then presses forward. The Count hadn't been lying about Albert being ready for it—his body eagerly accepts the invasion, delights in it, taking each offered inch of the Count's cock without protest.

Albert can hardly believe how smoothly it goes in, how good the foreign sensation is. The Count is _inside_ _him,_ stretching him open with his thickness. It's so intimate that nothing else in his life can compare. Under different circumstances, Albert thinks that alone would have given him all the pleasure he needed, but he's greedy for the physicality of it. He needs the Count to move, right now, to penetrate him deeply over and over again.

Albert shifts his hips, backing into the Count with a small whine. It doesn't surprise him when the Count answers his unspoken plea; his fingers squeeze Albert's waist and he pulls out, starting up a steady rhythm of thrusts. Albert thinks he can feel the Count's pulse through his cock, fast, but not nearly as quick as his own. His back arches when the Count pushes forward, relief sweeping through him as he brushes _something_ in him, and Albert's cock twinges in response.

"How are you feeling, Albert?" The Count asks, breathy whisper tickling Albert's shoulder.

Albert has to take a moment before he's able to answer. "Fine," he gasps, then thinks better of it. "Good... It feels really good, Count." Even that is an understatement. When the Count rocks his hips, it's like fireworks are going off inside him. That's before he moves in a perfect way, hitting that spot from before, this time with real force. Albert's knuckles go white as he clutches the bed sheets, desperate for anything that could help him weather the overwhelming stimulation.

The Count laughs (he thinks he does, it's hard to tell when he's doing that) and says, "I'm glad." Albert doesn't know how it could get any better than this, but then, the Count's pace increases, faster and faster until it's in sync with Albert's pounding heart. Albert doesn't know if he wants to whine or cry, and what comes out is a pathetic mixture of both.

"What sweet sounds you make." The Count praises Albert, as if he considered the noise comparable to a soulful aria. "I would like to hear more of them."

Another thrust, harder than the last, and right _there._ Electricity shoots from his gut to the tips of his fingers and back as the Count does it again. Albert's so stunned that he doesn't even have the opportunity to let the Count have a moan, just gasping breaths until a whimper finally breaks free, "C-Count!"

The Count nips at the crook of his neck, one hand creeping to Albert's stomach. Albert writhes as it curls around his cock, and strokes in time with the Count's movements. There's too much friction for Albert to keep track of between them, the palm rubbing his cock, the Count stirring him up inside, his shirt scraping the skin of Albert's back. Albert sways along with it, pushing back and angling his hips, coaxing a groan from the Count. It's a delicious sound surely, but it's so hard to focus on anything that isn't personally touching him.

Heat fills him to the brim, gathering in his cock as the Count strokes him faster, pounds him. So close, Albert thinks, to blessed release from this fever and to heights of pleasure he's never known. No warning comes. A burst of stars behind his eyes, and his body coils so tightly that the Count tenses and grunts in kind. Albert's orgasm crashes over him, ripping through him with the force of an earthquake. It's all Albert can do to try and breathe, but it seems to be unending, aftershocks coming in one after the other. It's so _good_ that Albert doesn't want it to stop, so maddening that he can't bear it any longer.

"Albert," comes that voice, the one that always found him when he was lost. Albert's breathing steadies, and his shattered senses slowly come back together, one at a time. Albert finds tracks of tears on his face, the remnants of a sob in his throat, and the fire, once diminished, flaring up in retribution.

Albert whimpers, attempting to will away the lingering tremors. "I don't know if I can—I... I feel like I'm drowning."

The Count draws back and pulls out of Albert's body. The sense of loss, of need, that rises up afterward scares Albert with its ferocity. With ease, the Count flips Albert onto his back. Albert lets out a yelp as the world twirls around him, then promptly forgets how to make a sound when he looks into the Count's face. Arousal, anticipation are there as plain as day, and if Albert is brave enough to hope, fondness, too.

The Count presses a kiss to his jaw, and says, "I have saved you from drowning once before. Do you recall it?" How could Albert not? At the time, he had thought the Count a wonderful mirage on the brink of death, even as he felt his fingers on his wrist, his arm carrying Albert firmly to safety. "I will make sure you keep your head above water. All you have to do is embrace what you feel."

Albert can only stare. The offer is darkly tempting. It's terrifying to imagine losing himself in this overwhelming pleasure, even with the Count's support, but at the same time, he craves it. Albert breathes out slowly and reaches for the Count, clutching at the back of his shirt. "I trust you, Count," he tells him. Distantly, Albert thinks that maybe he shouldn't, that he has every reason not to trust the man who had abducted him as a child and done more still.

That tiny whisper is immediately overwritten when the Count says, "You are very adorable." Then, he chuckles and shakes his head slightly. "That is to say, you are very... easy to love, Albert."

Albert pushes at the Count's shoulders so that he can meet his gaze full on, unsure whether to believe the implications of his words. "W...what do you mean?"

The Count just says, "I would be surprised if you have not charmed every person you ever met." It's all that Albert will get, but it is more than enough for him.

Albert surrenders himself completely, pulling up his legs in willing submission. The Count accepts it right away, hands tight on Albert's thighs as he delves back into his warmth.

Somehow, it feels even better than before. This time, when the Count starts to move, grinding against his sensitive flesh, Albert's mind goes blissfully blank. He digs his fingers into the Count's back, tips his head, and moans wildly. All Albert can do now is absorb every sensation given to him—the Count's breath hot against his ear, long nails leaving impressions in his skin, cock piercing him with increasing need.

Desperate noises pour from Albert's lips with every urging thrust, until the Count finally slows his pace, groaning, brows knitted with effort. Albert moves a hand to his cock, pumping it to the rhythm of the Count's rough panting.

The Count comes with a loud gasp, painting Albert's insides with a splash of semen, marking him. Albert can feel that fire consume him as he rubs himself faster, bracing for the eruption. Second time around, Albert thought he would have been prepared, but when it hits, he's just as disoriented. Wave after wave of pleasure leaves him quavering as his seed spills over his stomach.

And yet, it's not enough. Albert still feels so hot, so needy. He wraps his legs around the Count's waist, unable to stop himself from begging, "Don't stop. Please, I... I need more."

The Count takes a breath and brushes Albert's hair away from his forehead. "Of course."

Albert doesn't know how many times the ritual repeats, how many hours he spends under the Count's body, indulging himself in it. All he knows is that, eventually, the fire wanes and leaves him in a state of exhaustion on the brink between conscious and unconscious.

Albert is stirred from his daze by a light knock at the door and the Count, once next to him, pulling away to answer.

The deep tones of Bertuccio come, speaking softly, and the Count replies just as quietly. Albert can't make out a word before the exchange is over. There's a brief clinking, and the door shutting once again. The mattress dips at one side, and Albert turns his head to see the Count at the edge of the bed with an iced glass of cerulean liquid.

"I was hard on you today, Albert," the Count says with an apologetic look on his face. Albert's face grows hot. "Please, drink this. It will help your head clear." Albert doesn't mind the fogginess, but when he looks up at the barred window, he realizes that the crafted sky has grown dark. As strange as it is to think of the outside world—a world beyond the Count—Albert knows he should be returning home soon.

Albert sits up and takes the drink from the Count, slowly downing it. It's fruity and sweet with a sharp, tangy taste hiding in the wings. Albert already feels more alert from its coldness alone. He nearly drains the whole thing in one gulp, startled by how parched his throat had been.

"I must apologize again." The Count's face is tinged with regret. "I've likely done something else you should resent me for."

"Resent you...?" Albert is shocked to hear him say so. "Of course not! I mean... Yes, I was surprised at first... Who wouldn't be? But I could never resent you. Never did I think that someone as..." Albert can tell he's babbling, but it's hard to stop. "Someone as successful and... commanding a-and amazing as you, Count... could want someone like me." He bites his bottom lip, giving the Count a shy glance as he gathers his courage. "If you really feel you should apologize, then... instead, you should take responsibility for everything you've done to me." Albert wants to backpedal the second he hears how it sounds, too aggressive and ungracious, but the Count only laughs.

"I suppose you are right." The Count reaches out for Albert's glass, easing it from his fingers and setting it onto the nightstand. "In that case..." The Count rests his hand on Albert's cheek and smiles at him gently. "I will be sure to give you a very wonderful dream."

Huh? A dream?

Albert blinks. His eyelids become so heavy in an instant, and the rest of his body follows. When he tries to ask the Count what he means, his lips flap uselessly without sound. The Count puts an arm around Albert's shoulders and brings him close, cradling him against his chest.

"Good night, Albert," he murmurs, and night falls upon Albert like a curtain call.

 

Albert opens his eyes slowly, taking in the surroundings with confusion. Where... is he? A large, unfamiliar bed in an unfamiliar room. But before anxiety rises up, he catches sight of the chair nearby. A coat is slung over the back, red flames curling around the sleeves in a pattern Albert could never forget even if he tried.

Then, context comes flooding back. The poisoning. The plot against Valentine. How her butler had passed away. He'd gone to visit the Count to seek some form of refuge, and then... what? Albert rubs his eyelids, trying to will his memory back into his head. Had he fallen asleep somehow?

The door creaks open, and there is the Count, stepping in the room. "I see you are finally awake, Albert."

"I'm... sorry. I'm not sure... what happened to me." It seems so ridiculous to say it. It had been humiliating enough to be taken care of by the Count in his very own villa, but the same thing happening in his normal residence, not two days later? Albert tries to fight down his embarrassment.

"Most likely mental and physical stress compounded with the lingering effects of the poison," the Count says, sitting on his bedside chair. "You certainly pushed yourself yesterday."

"Ah... My apologies for troubling you yet again, Count." Albert rolls onto his side and realizes that he's wearing something completely different than what he'd arrived in. In place of his casual suit is a decorative indigo robe, bound by a thin cord at the waist.

The Count answers the question on the tip of Albert's tongue before he can ask it. "You were sweating quite profusely... I hope you don't mind that I wiped you down and changed your clothes."

"H-huh?" The thought of the Count personally stripping him down and wiping his sweat does something strange to his gut, as if stoking old embers. He can picture it easily: the Count caressing him all over, tongue dipping into his mouth, a touch of smoke in the depths of his kiss. Albert's face burns so hard he has to lower his head to hide it from the Count. He swallows, giving his head a quick shake to dislodge the images in his head. "That's fine. I... don't mind, of course. Thank you for looking after me."

"There is no need to thank me," the Count says. He snags his tea cup from its resting place on the nightstand and sips at it, leaning back in his chair.

The sight stirs something else in Albert's mind, a faraway memory that dissolves faster than a sugar cube in a cup of hot coffee. "You know... it's strange," Albert mumbles, distracted by the sense of _deja vu_. "Once... when I was young, and foolish, I decided that I was going to run away from home. I stuffed everything I could fit into a backpack and made it out of Paris on a train before the sun was up. But I ended up catching cold on the short trip, and must have troubled the good man who helped me recover in Marseilles. Yet... ever since that day, I've had the vague impression that I might have met a man... very similar to your disposition on that train."

The Count listens attentively, but his face does not betray any sort of reaction. Albert goes on anyway, "Sometimes I wonder if he was simply a dream, or if he had been one of the people to assist me when I had fallen ill long ago. Still... when I see you like this, I wonder why it comes to mind?" The lack of response gets Albert flustered, and he quickly blurts out, "I'm sorry, Count, I'm just blathering on..."

"No," the Count says. "Your tale is very interesting to me." His eyes close and he takes a long sip, then smirks. "How wonderful would it be if you and I had met long before that day at the Carnival... don't you think?"

Albert's face breaks into a small grin, relieved that the Count feels the same as he does. "Yes, exactly that! It would be an amazing coincidence, wouldn't it?"

"Not coincidence, Albert," the Count says, so firmly that Albert's head snaps up. The Count's mouth has a hint of something mysterious to it, like he's in on some joke that Albert wouldn't be able to understand even if he explains. "If something like that were to have happened... I think it would certainly be by design."


End file.
